


sanctuary

by Val_Creative



Series: IT Movies Fic-Palooza 2019 [16]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Adults, Canon Gay Character, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Feel-good, Hitchhiking, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Motorcycles, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), Pining, Pre-Canon, Rebellion, References to Depression, Religious Conflict, Richie Tozier Flirts, Stanley Uris-centric, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 14:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20725736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Richie and Stanley meet as adults, by chance, having no idea they’re friends and how much they mean to each other.





	sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RandomTVJunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomTVJunk/gifts).

> Requested by RandomTVJunk (AO3): "Stozier fic of any kind is fine by me, especially NSFW." This got way out of control but I love it. I hope you guys love it too. Any thoughts/ comments are so very welcomed! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🖤
> 
> ((Want a request for IT? I'm doing 100-1000 word fics of any friendship or romantic ship + any prompt until I feel like quitting. Rules: you need to comment here and provide a friendship or romantic ship + prompt. You need to specify if you want SFW or NSFW (for 18+ readers only). Please check [Full Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1478582). The only requests I'll be looking at is if you ALSO commented about the fic you read as well. It's only fair. You came to this fic to read it and me doing something for you later on is a sweet bonus!))

*

Childhood has a kind of blurry quality to Stanley.

He amounts it to repression brought on by strict parenting and an early onset neurosis.

While waiting at the dentist's office, years and years ago, Stanley discovered an outdated Top Gear dog-eared and forgotten among the litter of various magazines on the the coffee table. His first and real inkling for adolescent _rebellion_. He mentally apologized to the teenage receptionist spacing out and twirling her gum around her finger, cramming the magazine into his book bag while his mother freshened up.

(Or rather she took her medication with a hidden, tiny bottle of whiskey.)

Stanley pulled it from under his mattress in the dead of night, obsessively rereading with the column about motorcycles. All of the glossy, wrinkled pictures of different models and gears. He still liked accounting, memorizing and working with numbers. And it's not like Stanley thought one day he could afford a motorcycle, let alone ride one out of this hell-town. Too _dangerous_.

But it was a _nice_ thought. Making everything hot and churning in Stanley's gut.

His parents wanted him to be a rabbi, like his dad. Ever since Stanley was a baby. Their relationship with him strained over time, when Stanley refused to fall prey to their expectations. He didn't want to make them grandchildren. He didn't want to marry. And organized religion never made Stanley _feel_ anything, and definitely _not_ feel happy. He's never truly felt happy in his whole life.

That's when Stanley borrowed an acquaintance's 1991 Yamaha FZR1000, promising to be careful, for a joyride. A short one. Revving up the engine, making quick work of the gauges and speeding down the highway… that had been like _flying_.

Stanley never forgot that.

He imagined himself transforming into a large, roaring bird, spreading his wings across the pavement and taking off. The wind whipping, cold and drizzling rain, against Stanley's nose exposed by a helmet-visor. Stanley didn't want to lose that feeling.

At age eighteen, he saved up enough from two full-time jobs, riding his own junkyard-remodeled motorcycle out of Derry.

*

For being such a mild-mannered, introverted kid growing up, Stanley doesn't let it show.

He's lived from here to there, manning a delivery truck once before quitting. Putting in college hours.

Stanley knew what he wanted. A career in an accounting firm—despite his work ethic and intelligence and ability to manage the worst tasks, they couldn't overlook what made Stanley _who_ he is. His ambition. His willful, clever demeanor. His tattoos—the lovely, bird-like tattoos peeking out of Stanley's rolled-up cuffs and the glaring, black lettering of **P R A Y** exposed on Stanley's knuckles.

(Depression sucks out the light from Stanley's life. He avoids self-harm and drinking, unlike his relatives, muttering prayers from his childhood when Stanley needs it. Stanley's father _must_ be turning in his grave for his son desecrating his body.)

But, really, it was the rumors of Stanley's preference for women and men. He never bothered to hide it.

Stanley files for discrimination charges, and leaves, knowing deep down it would change nothing.

*

Through sheer dumb luck and recognition, Stanley gets a voicemail from an old colleague weeks later. An offer to become a partner in his new firm. Scheduling his own high-paying occupation and deals. They'll knock everyone else off their pedestals.

(Befriending the right individuals makes all of the difference in this world, Stanley muses.)

He agrees to talking out the paperwork in Atlanta.

*

There's no riding without the full protection-gear. Whether it's a blizzard or scorching hot desert—it doesn't matter.

He considered at one point, like a moron, that routinely putting on the custom leather suit wasn't necessary. That is until Stanley had been clipped by a minivan doing 55mph, failing in panic, helplessly rolling and sliding on his whole back down the interstate.

(The only thing that kept Stanley from turning into a broken heap? The extra, Kevlar padding and a spinal-cushion.)

Stanley notices a guy walking up ahead, keeping out of the lane but signaling obviously to the oncoming traffic. Walking being an _optimistic_ phrase. He looks like he's gonna collapse any second now. Being the good citizen, Stanley pulls off behind him, yanking off his helmet and frowning. "Everything alright?" he hollers, getting the other man's attention.

"No, not really." The guy looks woozier up close, his ears and face mottled pink by the sweltering afternoon. Stanley feels an invisible, nameless pull guiding him, reaching for this guy's shoulder. "Been stranded by my ex. It'll be fine."

Well, _that's_ a contradictory statement.

"Hop on," Stanley tells him, passing a different helmet from his back-rack. The guy takes it, cracking a wide, weakened smile.

"Fuck, you're a lifesaver." He shakes Stanley's hand with renewed vigor. "Richie."

"Nice to meet you."

Stanley climbs back onto his motorcycle, fastening on his helmet while Richie climbs after him and holds onto Stanley's sides firmly. "You're not a serial killer, are you?" Richie exclaims. He can't see it but Stanley gives him a '_what the hell_' look.

"… Just checking."

*

The gas station nearby, thankfully, is open.

Richie gleefully accepts two of the jerky links from Stanley's hand, ravenously chewing. "I'll pay you back once I can save my wallet," he admits, mouth full. "The cops are looking for my ride." Richie chases it down with a gulp of water, _aah!_ing in relief.

"What did you do to make her angry?"

He doesn't expect Richie to suddenly go quiet.

"Or him," Stanley points out helpfully. "Whichever."

An awkward-sounding laugh. "Yeah, uhm. I'm traveling a lot, and… _not_… answering phone calls when I should." Richie lowers his head, biting into another jerky. It's the most bizarre thing. The more he looks at Richie, the more Stanley is sure he's _seen_ Richie before. Is it the Hawaiian shirt? Is it the glasses? Is it how Richie's voice sounds like it's from a dream?

"I recognize you," Stanley murmurs. He points a finger to Richie offhandedly. "I went to one of your comedy shows. Back in '06. The one in Las Vegas." Richie glances up, curiously. Stanley's mouth thins. "It _sucked_."

Instead of getting pissed off by this, Richie sighs nasally.

"Everybody's a critic."

Stanley bites down a laugh. "You need a ride anywhere?" he asks. "Police station?"

"That, and somewhere to crash for the night. Besides a ditch."

*

Despite the initial protest from Richie, Stanley throws down the cash for the motel room. He inspects the mud-caked rug under his feet, dropping his pair of thickly padded motorcycle gloves onto the empty television-stand. Unzipping his suit.

"Lemme get this straight… you _vroom-vroom_ around town to pick up people to fuck and pay you for gas?"

"Not exactly. I get them to where they need to be." Stanley feels the need to correct him. That's not why he picked up Richie. However, there's a long history of dining and drinking with hitchhikers with him. "That's it. Sex happens occasionally."

"That means anyone, right?"

Richie doesn't appear to be weirded out by this.

"I like men. I like women." Stanley's fingers rake into his dark curls. "I like everyone," he says matter-of-factly.

"... Wh'ss your name?" Richie asks, narrowing his eyes at Stanley and yanking off his sweat-stained undershirt. He's gangly for an adult man. But still handsome. In his own gangly way. "You never said it."

"You never asked me."

Richie's lips quirk. "Think I just did."

Stanley exhales a grumbling noise, smiling and rolling his eyes. He's just met the guy and Richie's already capable of getting under his skin. In the best way. "Stan," he answers, watching as Richie's expression dims into something soft and sacred.

"_Stan_."

His own name rolls around Richie's mouth, and it's… good. It's so good. Like every molecule and atom hovering on Richie's lips is meant to form Stanley's name. He wants to kiss Richie, Stanley realizes, fascinated and lightheaded. He really, _really_ wants to. And does, prying Richie's lips apart with his own, circling their tongues lightly as Stanley moves in, touching Richie's face.

There's too much heat in this room. Stanley lugs off the rest of his bodysuit and padding, already starving for more of Richie's skin. He feels the other man's cock hardening up, panting and yanking open Richie's dust-encrusted, ripped jeans.

"Stan—_jesus christ_—" Richie moans, dragging his lips to Stanley's throat and clutching onto him.

It's a blurry kind of quality. The way Stanley tries to remember, and it's only Richie—Richie, _Richie_ pistoning underneath him, sweat-tacky and warm. Clear, cool lubricant oozes onto Stanley's inner thighs, leaking in his delirious and frantic thrusting. Stanley has better rhythm, experience, palming along for the condomed-line of Richie's dick and lining up, fucking down on him.

_"You're taking it like a fucking cockslut, dude_ _—"_

"You, aah—you talk too much—" Stanley mutters, jerking his hips over Richie. One of his hands clenches into the motel-sheets, tugging. Stanley's other hand presses onto the middle of Richie's hot, hairy chest, steadying himself.

Richie breathes out a quivery, pleased laugh. "It's a gift."

*

Atlanta.

Stanley decides to get an early start on his trip, heading to his motorcycle parked. The outdoor lamps flicker on. Richie waits over by the cinder-blocks, arms folded and impassive. "Thanks for everything," he calls out. "See ya around, I guess."

"Probably not," Stanley replies truthfully, unhooking his helmet.

Richie's teeth sink into his lower lip. "Probably," he echoes Stanley, but disappointed. Stanley doesn't understand why he _cares_, when no other hitchhiker did, or why he lets Richie kiss him a last time, so needy and furious that Stanley's vision greys.

He'll keep searching for answers. Until that blurs too.

*


End file.
